


the unruly member

by dorky (dorcas_gustine)



Category: The Losers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcas_gustine/pseuds/dorky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Warnings:</b> Implied mutilation and violence, lots of violence. It's not pretty. <i>Really</i>.</p><p>This was inspired by a prompt on the lj comm thelosers_fans. Prompt added in the end notes, as not to spoil.</p><p>This isn't betaed, so please point out any mistakes. Title taken from Edgar Lee Masters' poem, <i>Dorcas Gustine</i>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	the unruly member

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Implied mutilation and violence, lots of violence. It's not pretty. _Really_.
> 
> This was inspired by a prompt on the lj comm thelosers_fans. Prompt added in the end notes, as not to spoil.
> 
> This isn't betaed, so please point out any mistakes. Title taken from Edgar Lee Masters' poem, _Dorcas Gustine_.

All he can hear is the noise inside his ears - his _head_ \- like a heart monitor flat-lining. It's loud and it drowns out every sound around him. He can see Clay's mouth moving, but his words are distant and distorted, and strangely amplified, as if he were speaking under water.

"--your hand--"

He dismisses Clay, he's not important. All he sees is the man Aisha has just disarmed and tied down. He's looking up at him with something that can only be described as pure _terror_ in his eyes. The man's face fills his whole visual field, as though through the scope of his rifle, and he takes notes of every little detail: the high heart-rate in the pulsing vein in his neck, the sweat on his brow, the way his lips tremble-

Is he begging? He should.

He can't hear anything, just that continous roar, like wind whistling past his ears. It doesn't matter anyway, this man's words don't matter, not even if he were begging in all the languages of the world.

The man's head snaps backwards with the force of the blow. A flare of pain ignites along his arm, exploding from the fingers that Jensen almost bit off - lashing out and crying and scared like a cornered animal - and spreading like fire up to his shoulder.

The burning lingers like a shroud, but it doesn't matter.

He gets another punch in before hands - three, four, five, he doesn't _care_ \- grab at his arms, his chest, pulling, jerking him backwards. He loses his hat.

"--the hell--"

He roars, he can't hear it, but he feels it deep in his chest, trembling; and he surges forward, breaking free. He gets a kick in this time, but it's not enough, not _fucking_ enough. He wants to tear the man - he doesn't care if he was the one, he's the only one they've left alive - to pieces, to rip into him with his hands and his teeth and-

"--get him-- Cougar--! What the--"

He's screaming, he knows, he clenches his fist and his right hand burns so bright everything goes white for a second. His fingers are probably broken - he doesn't care - he's felt Jensen's teeth reach the bone for sure.

"--Jesus-- Jesus--"

The man is yelling, curled on his side on the ground, his left shoulder lifted in a desperate attempt to shield his face, since his hands are tied behind his back. It doesn't matter, the belly is left exposed and he's slow in drawing up his knees to protect the vulnerable flesh.

"--his tongue--"

The hands have left him, and he's free now. The screech in his head is getting louder and his head is full of words, words, words, and that voice, _his_ voice, and he can't hear anything else.

"--did they--"

So he just kicks and kicks and kicks and kicks-

"--God-- his _tongue_\--"

and _kicks_.

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** The prompt was: _There are times where Jensen is quiet, and Cougar hates it. Would prefer this to be a captured by the enemy fic, but if not that's alright._


End file.
